


The Whole 'Being Dead' Thing Isn't Quite All It's Cracked Up To Be (Or, How Not To Go About The Afterlife)

by philosophybarrel



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Angst, Death, Drowning, Everyone's already dead, Fluff, Frank is a Viking, Gen, Gerard Way is actually Death, Mentions of Cancer, No Romance, No Smut, On Hold, The Black Parade, The Ghost of you, Time Travel, Time doesn't really exist, Vikings because why not, War, he's also dead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:27:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28219188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philosophybarrel/pseuds/philosophybarrel
Summary: In which three idiots and Death accidentally murder God.(on hold)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	1. The Three Noble Deaths

The sky darkens as Frank lies on his back in the meadow. He is dying, no doubt about that. He knows it. We all know it. His stomach is stained a garish red, and his fingers swirl melancholy patterns in the blood pooling there. His hands shake with the effort, and soon they fall helpless to his sides. 

He never thought it would be like this. He knows now there is no escaping it - he will die alone, forgotten, another face amidst the nameless casualties of this unending war. Not even a fly will bear witness to the death of this fallen warrior, this whirling storm of fury and rage and passion now reduced to a shaking mess of blood and bones, the life leaking out of him and painting the brown earth red. He is not the first to die this way. He will not be the last, either. 

This thought brings him little comfort as he stares up at the thick, black clouds above him. Even now, he begins to pray. Pray to anyone that is listening - don’t let it end like this. Don’t let my life come to a close when I am alone. Don’t let me leave this world behind just yet. And even if they don’t realise it, people who will die - well, they all begin to pray. They pray to the universe, to the stars, to gods and monsters and warriors, to anyone and anything that will listen. They pray to stave off the night for even a second more. They cling to this mortal coil with foolish hope in their eyes and desperate anger in their hearts as the only thing that has ever held meaning to them slips away before their eyes, leaving them powerless to stop it. Their life is over, even as they lie watching it slip away. 

Frank sighs with all the energy he can muster, just to tell the universe how pissed off he is about dying. 

At this moment, you would expect there to be some big reveal. Something like - oh, I don’t know - he isn’t dying. This is all a dream? A saviour will descend down on him with open arms and wrench his rotten soul back into the land of the living just as it slips away? That is what most often happens in stories like this, as who you may assume to be the protagonist lies dying. For, of course, we cannot allow the main character to die before their duty to the story has been completed, can we? 

Well, I’m sorry, but this is not one of those stories. There is nothing we can do for him now apart from wait for his life to come to an end, and his death to come to fruition. 

The fur of his coat begins to blow in the slight wind as his eyes start to dim. The beating of his heart slows, growing louder in the silence pounding down on his ears. His sword lies forgotten in the pooling blood beside him, the hilt just out of reach of his hand. He really wants to think of some killer last words right now, but the only thing he can think to say is  _ I’m sorry _ . He’s sorry that he could never be enough. That he couldn’t stop them. That he let them die. That he let them down. That, again and again, he failed to prove himself and his worth to the village, and again and again he failed to prove his worth to even himself. 

But of course, he’s dead long before he can say anything. 

And the sky starts to cry as I take him for my own. 

\---

Mikey is not dying - not just yet. He will be in a few minutes, of course, but he doesn’t know that right now. All he knows is that he doesn’t like the ocean, and he’s on a boat. Which is just brilliant. Oh, and his hat’s way too big for him. 

The waves crash and moan against the side of the boat, and he pulls his jacket closer around his body. It’s freezing cold today - colder than yesterday, certainly, and colder than tomorrow will be for the others. The ones who survive, at least. And mark my words, that will not be many of them. The beach will become a massacre, a murder scene of unjust casualty and loss of sacred life. Not unusual in these times, but a tragedy nonetheless. 

Mikey can’t focus on anything other than the rocking motion of the boat he’s sitting in. He feels his throat close up with fear and anxiety as the beach starts to come into view - he’s sure that he will die before the boat even reaches land at this rate. The sea is cruel and uncaring, no doubt about that, and he is certain it will take his life before he even has a chance to save himself. Gleaming metal and burning bullets are nothing compared to the raw power of the ocean. 

There are others on the boat, of course. He can’t meet their eyes, even as they turn to talk nervously with one another. Even in this tiny wooden casket, adrift and heading to disaster, among others who will share his fate, he is still alone and terrified. Some pray around him, the muttered words bringing no comfort to Mikey. More take photos of loved ones out of their pockets and hold them close to their chests. He has nothing to believe in, and no-one to love. 

As the boat comes so close to the beach, I put my arm around his shoulders. Even though he won’t be able to feel it, I like to imagine it will make him feel less alone. 

There is a captain, or a commander, or whoever he is. He stands up and speaks, but Mikey doesn’t know what he’s saying. His throat is dry and he can’t seem to summon enough strength to swallow. He takes off his glasses for the last time and puts them in his pocket with shaking hands. 

And then there is a roar, and an order, and the world seems to explode. 

Running. He runs forward and jumps off of the boat, overtaken with some animal urge to escape the ocean - anything’s better than drowning, even bullets - and makes it onto the dark black sludge of sand by the water’s edge. Others are pounding forward all around him. He finds himself moving, but he doesn’t know why. The adrenaline and fear has taken over him, and now he seems to watch himself race forward from way above, dodging shell holes and exploding sand as the enemy fires relentlessly at him. He stops to fumble for his gun and - 

Oh, but that was a mistake. He knows it was a mistake. I know it was a mistake. You all know it was a mistake. 

And then a bullet enters his body, just above his heart, and he falls back to earth, back to his broken body that lies, bleeding out on the tragic sand, back to me. I open my arms to him as his eyes dim. 

And the sky starts to cry as I take him for my own. 

\--- 

The hospital bed is just about the most uncomfortable thing he’s ever known. Even now, as he lies dying, he’s still conscious of the lumpy mattress underneath him, and he groans. The radio hisses a faint, forgotten tune next to him - he doesn’t know what it is, but it brings him a little comfort in the darkness of death. Ray sighs and watches the ceiling, the room silent but for the intermittent beeping of the heart monitor and the shallow hisses of his own breathing. 

He had thought that, at the end, he might have someone there with him, but no, of course not. He had hoped for a girlfriend, maybe, or a couple of kids, but he knows now that he was foolish to think that. So he lowers his expectations to a nurse or a doctor maybe, but as the time ticks on and the pain in his chest gets ever more stabbing, he realises that he is going to die alone. On a hospital bed in a foreign country, where no-one speaks his language and even less people try to understand him. 

All this for some gold, eh? 

I sit at the end of his bed, watching him. He shivers involuntarily, just as they all do when my gaze finally falls upon them. His face is gaunt and pale - you can see the bones of his skull as if they’re about to poke through his skin - and dark circles haunt his dim, hopeless eyes. I can’t do anything for him now, only wait for his body to finally give up his fleeting soul. It shouldn’t be long now, of course ,judging by the monitors all around him and the look in his eyes. He knows - of course he does. He knows, and he’s terrified of what happens next. I don’t blame him - I was too. 

I promise you, it’s not that bad. 

A flash of movement from outside the room catches Ray’s eye. He tries to move, but he hurts too much, and his arms and legs are shaking so much he feels as if he’s going to pass out right now, which wouldn’t be unlikely to be honest. The door opens as a nurse steps inside. Ray opens his mouth to try to say something to him, but no words come out as the nurse puts a jug of water absent-mindedly on the side, not taking any notice of the erratic monitors or the gasping breaths of his ‘patient’. 

He summons all of his strength and reaches out to the nurse, grabbing his hand as tight as he can. The nurse looks down at him, shocked when he sees the state of his face.

“ Bozhe moy…” he mutters.  _ Russian _ , Ray realises finally. 

The nurse doesn’t know what to do with the dying man. Ray doesn’t mind what he does, he just wants someone to be there with him when he does go. I close my eyes - this moment is the last he’ll have on Earth, and though I usually don’t grant my clients much privacy… This man has been through Hell already. I owe him something so small as a few seconds of privacy before death. And though I hate to admit it, I feel like I understand what he’s been through. 

The beeping of the heart monitor makes my eyes jerk back open again, though, and I see Ray staring blankly at the ceiling as that single beep stretches out for forever, the nurse shaking him frantically before running out of the room… 

I walk over to him and close his eyes. 

And the sky starts to cry as I take him for my own.


	2. The Garden of Life and Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is coffee, a memory, and a voice.

The Garden of Life and Death is my home. The only home I've known, really, apart from the sad, fading memories of my short time on Earth (and even then, I never felt at home there. It was like something was calling me… away, if that makes sense.) It's my job to keep it clean and tidy and ready for whenever its grounds and flowerbeds may be needed. That isn't very often, of course, but still. 

The water here looks like melted stars fallen from the sky above. It runs everywhere, making a mad twisting pattern between the rivers and streams and brooks, trickling by the flowerbeds and leaving its glittering residue to sparkles under the light of the moons above. It is forever night here, an eternal time of rest and mystery that I have grown to love. Solitude, as well, is definite. In an infinite realm of wonder and mystery, few would choose to stay here with me. Many have come by, of course, but they have all left eventually. 

My residence looks over this garden from high above, a gift lent to me by the Lady of the Skies. A kind of mechanical cottage crossed with an air balloon, you might say, tethered to the ground with rope and sheer willpower. It is not very large - just big enough for me to get by. And I don’t need it, anyway, but it’s nice to pretend that I really have somewhere to call my own. Even if it’s just being lent to me. 

That’s where I am now, actually. The cup of stars in my hand is growing colder by the second as I look out over the endless Garden, moonlight barely brushing the surface of the trees. In the distance, I can just make out smoke and a flickering light. The residence of the Earl of October. I have never met him, nor will I ever meet him. Many strange people make their home here, of course, but we are forbidden from ever making contact. I do my job and they do theirs. That is the extent of our relationship. 

I drink the last of the coffee and drop the mug down to the floor, watching it dissipate before it hits the ground, and stand up again. I should really be starting the chores for the ‘day’. 

My residence is crowded with pointless items that appear in the Garden - a pair of glasses with cracked lenses, a fragment of an ancient weapon stained with rusted blood, an oddly shaped silver pen… fragments of lives lived that come to the final resting place with their owners. I have a bed (though I never sleep), a kettle I use to make coffee (because coffee is the best thing humanity has ever created), the items that crowd the walls, and… well, that’s about it. I don’t need much - I never have. 

I clamber through the crowded cottage to the balcony outside and grab the rope that leads to the ground before leaping off of the edge. 

This is the most efficient way to get down, no matter how much it makes my stomach churn every time I do it. I shouldn’t be scared of it. But I am. 

Oh, well. 

The ground is rushing faster and faster up to meet me as I fall through the air, and I shut my eyes tight. I trust the rope… well, I don’t really, but… 

My feet jarr into the ground and my knees buckle. Damnit. 

I give myself a few seconds to get my breath back. In, out, you know? I can still taste the tang of fear on my tongue and my legs are shaking, but I force myself to slow down and just breathe. In, out, in, out. 

Death shouldn’t be scared of heights. Death shouldn’t be scared of anything, really.

I stand up again and let the rope jerk back up to the cottage in the air. Unfortunately, I’m terrified of basically everything. 

The Garden is silent but for the sounds of my laboured breathing. There are no birds here, no bugs or spiders that call this place home. Sometimes the Raven comes to visit, just to make sure I’m still doing my job right, but that only happens about once every century or two. Then again, time here is rather messed up, so who knows? Maybe the Raven is here somewhere. 

I reach up behind me and pull my scythe off of my back, swinging it around so I hold it like the stereotypical depictions of Death in the media. It’s strange that people seem to know what I look like - as far as I can remember, no living soul has ever seen me. 

Maybe the Lady of the Sky put an idea in their heads. I don’t know. 

She’s very confusing, the Lady of the Sky. If I didn’t know better, I would say she was insane, but I know she can’t be. She is technically God, after all. So she can’t be insane. I’ve visited Heven once, you know - when I first came here, I was taken to the residence of God. It sounds rather grand, doesn’t it? You might imagine a choir of angels, maybe some fluffy clouds or something like that. But I’m the only angel here (and I’m not sure that I’m what people would imagine when they thought of angels), and there were certainly no clouds. Just a lot of glass walls and ceilings, and a maze of rooms and corridors. That was where she gave me my scythe, my clothes and - of course - Mary (my home). 

I haven’t seen her in person since, but I know the Raven is her servant, and he keeps coming so she must still be ‘alive’ (if you can even call a God’s existence ‘living’). 

The trees are short and stubby here, around where I live, and they’re spread out so thinly you can’t really call it a forest. The first thing I have to do each day is clean up the fallen leaves and memories around this place, because when souls  _ do  _ come here (which is very rarely, but anyway), this is where they come first. My humble abode, if you may. And the memories can be so  _ pesky _ to get rid of sometimes - they have a habit of clinging to everything like glue. 

A blue spark floats past my shoulder. I try to dodge it, but too late. A memory - just brilliant, an amazing way to start my day. Not like I needed to get anything done or anything. 

_ “Mommy! Mommy, look!” The little boy holds a thin piece of coloured string up to his mother and grins. “A unicorn hair!”  _

_ “That’s nice, dear,” his mother mutters, squinting down at the papers on the table in front of her. “Why don’t you go and try to find the unicorn?”  _

_ “I will, I will!”  _

_ The boy shoves the string in his pocket and sets off.  _

I shiver as the memory leaves my system. I can’t stop the flashbacks - it would be impossible to. At first they were fascinating insights into strangers’ lives back on Earth, each one different and exciting, but as time wore on they became inconveniences. They grow on trees around here, and fall with the leaves. 

I take my scythe and tap the end once. The blade transforms into a brush head with a faint clicking sound. 

Time to get to - 

But before I can start sweeping away the memories, a sound pierces the silence. 

No, not a sound - a voice. 

“VALHALLA!” someone cries in the distance. “FUCK YEAH!” 


End file.
